The first day with a forecast of 70°, and with the east window thermometer showing 75° (my neighborhood is always warmer than the forecast – I think the weather station must be near the river – though, unhappily, the coming week will drop back down to 59° or so): I laid on a lawn chair in my back yard, in the sun, next to the herbs and pots we bought yesterday, which I will organize and replant in a day or two.
I thought this morning, on waking: minor aches and sleepiness are making it difficult to write, and as I can expect aches, pains and the low energies of age and intersecting illnesses to worsen over the coming years, it would be amazing if I ever finished this book, let alone any other. Ah well; perhaps that's just how it is.
But summer (or even a fragment, a taste, of summer) in a northern clime is such a vast change, and such a pleasant gift: I can't worry very much....
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